Chapter Text
It begins and ends, much like in another life, for love of a woman.
“The Longbottom boy, then,” the Dark Lord decides. “It’s him.”
He’s staring absentmindedly into the distance, ignoring Snape where he lies prostrated before his throne, forehead to floor, neck aching, spine contorting. For all the notice he takes of him, Snape might as well be a decorative piece of furniture, or a very exhausted coffee table. His muscles tremble from the tension of holding his position as he waits for him to finish thinking; his lord had greeted him with a Crucio, he suspects just for the sake of it. Still, he holds the kowtow, as the Dark Lord calls it.
(There are things, sometimes, that make Snape wonder. Wizards never had a form of obeisance like this. He knows the Death Eaters consider it the Dark Lord’s own invention, a show of respect for a lord most high, his magic worth kneeling before. Severus knew of it though, a memory from primary school he keeps folded tight in his heart where it can’t ache too much yet cannot fade, hears it recited in Lily’s clear, high voice as she sits propped beneath their favorite tree, her world history book balanced neatly against her knees.
“In Imperial Chinese protocol, the kowtow was performed before the Emperor of China, as an act of deep respect and the highest sign of reverence for the Son of Heaven ….”
They’d practiced it that day, giggling, in the park, until a scandalized governess ordered them to stop. The knees of his trousers had been stained green and earned him a welt across his ear, but Lily’s laughter had made it worth it.
Why does a pureblood Dark Lord, he thinks, who emerged from nowhere with no wealth and no name, know the royal protocol of ancient Muggle emperors?
It’s one of the most dangerous thoughts in his head. He tries not to think it.)
“Not the Potters, after all,” The Dark Lord continues, blessedly unaware of what lies in his head. He strokes the arms of his chair as though soothing a serpent. “Not a girl.” His lip curls. “It must be a boy, to rival me.”
And Snape thanks every god he’s never believed in that Lily carried a girl. That miracle of fate has saved her life. He hopes she will never truly know how close she came to her own ending, and how he led her there himself.
“My Lord,” he says, inclining his head deeper. His voice is muffled by the floor, his lips scraping the tiles, but he doesn’t dare agree. He will know why he does, he will hear the relief—
“The Order is aware that you know of the prophecy,” he says instead. “They’ve taken the initiative to hide both families under Fidelius charms.”
“The Fidelius will be no issue,” the Dark Lord replies with a cold sort of satisfaction. “My spy in the Order already determined who the Longbottoms chose for their Secretkeeper.”
“Who?” Snape asks before he can think not to, but he is remembering that day in Diagon Alley, the last day of spring, and he can’t breathe—
The Dark Lord raises an eyebrow, a knowing smile on his face. “The Prewetts,” he says. “One of them, at least.”
Snape nearly goes slack with relief. “Gideon and Fabian,” he murmurs. Exceptional wizards.
“One of them, yes, although my spy couldn’t ascertain which.” The Dark Lord shrugs carelessly. “It doesn’t matter. They’ll both be easy enough to break.”
Snape doubts this but doesn’t dare voice it. The Prewett twins have a reputation even the most depraved of Death Eaters have learned to fear. They’ve left a trail of bodies behind them through the war.
The Dark Lord still seems to hear it. “Oh, make no mistake, they’d willingly die on their own for the Longbottoms. Perhaps they’d even hold the secret as their own twin was tortured in front of them. But I hear from my sources that they dearly love their little sister.” He smiles, and it makes Snape’s skin crawl; it’s a human expression, universal in every language, yet there’s nothing human in his face. “She has a brood of her own; six sons, if I recall correctly. It’s not commonly known. Her brothers have kept her and her husband out of the war, and they’ve stayed quiet as church mice raising their family and causing no trouble.” The smile twists into something chilling. “A shame, really, that a pureblood witch so fertile has chosen the light and married a blood traitor. We could use those sorts of witches on our side, championing our cause.”
He sighs as though he regrets it, and it’s so performative a younger Snape would have rolled his eyes. “But it matters not to me,” he continues. “I’ll be happy to cull her brood by a son or two … or maybe five.” The smile is back, and now it’s a real one, full of relish at the thought of pain. “But I dare say the Prewett twins will disagree with my methods and view the … disposal of their beloved nephews quite differently. She did name a couple of the brats after them, or so I hear.”
And that’s it, Severus thinks, heart sinking. It’s elegant and simple and ruthless all at once. Because Gideon and Fabian may value their honor and loyalty enough to hold the Longbottoms safe in the face of their own deaths, but not when faced with the torture and murder of their young nephews. They will break.
And through them, the Dark Lord will break the Longbottoms.
And Lily … she’ll be safe. He represses that afternoon, the sunlight catching on the flame of her hair, with every inch of his soul.
“You’ve done me a great service, Severus,” the Dark Lord says, and he sounds as though he means it. “If you wish a favor of me, name it. I will do my best to grant it.”
He shouldn’t. It’s not worth it. But—
He remembers the way Lily smiled in Diagon Alley, at him, a real one, for the first time in years. It was tentative, uncertain, laced with old scars and bad blood that he knows will never be fully healed. But it was a smile, and there were her eyes—evergreen, not emerald, something eternal and sacred and untouched—looking at him, for the first time in years.
He thinks of the way she’d cradled the swell of her waist, of how Alice had reached out gently to stroke her belly, hunching forward awkwardly to reach it around the bulk of her own child bulging from her own waist. My godchild, Alice had laughed, tapping Lily’s belly with a playful hand. My godchild, Lily had returned, just as possessive as she placed her hand on Alice’s stomach, and her eyes had shone.
She chose Potter. She chose the light. He knows that. But still.
“The Longbottom woman,” he says before he can stop himself. “She’s of Carrow stock.”
“Oh?” The Dark Lord says, as though he might be interested, although there’s a smirk unfurling on his face.
“Good stock,” Severus emphasizes, almost mindlessly, and forcibly forgetting he hates the Carrow twins. “The Carrows carry strong, reliable magic. She’ll … she’ll be useful. Consider sparing her. As a favor.”
“Sparing her?” The Dark Lord sounds droll, now. “Why would I do that, apart from her sturdy magic?”
Because Lily would weep to lose her. Because Alice is the one who spotted him that spring day, hovering in the shadows of the cafe’s sun speckled pavilion—he was always in the shadows, always seeking her light— and she didn’t spurn him for a plague, a blight, a thing from Lily’s past that should only ever be erased, eradicated, forgotten. Because she elbowed Lily with a chastising cluck of her tongue when she scowled at him and urged her to acknowledge him instead.
Hogwarts, she said with a gentle smile, was so very long ago. Don’t pout, Flower. It’s a beautiful day.
Because she showed me kindness, once, and I repaid her with the death of her bloodline.
He can’t say that. He thinks back to what the Dark Lord said of Molly Weasley, and with an expertly concealed shudder, forces the words out. “You said yourself we need more pureblood witches aligned with the dark. She’s of Carrow blood. With time, and the removal of her light oriented son and husband, she could be ... an asset.”
It makes him sick, on some level, to advocate for a life by putting forth the value of the womb attached to it. Lily would despise him for it. Lily will despise him for it. But he has nothing else in his arsenal to barter with, and Lily despises him, anyway.
“An asset,” the Dark Lord repeats, amused, now, and dread sinks through him, because he knows. “And you’re certain this is all in service to me, Severus? It has nothing to do with your pet mudblood and your own selfish desires?” He tilts his head. “Lily Potter is the boy’s godmother, isn’t she? Chosen by the woman from good Carrow stock.”
For a moment, Severus allows himself to be lost in his hatred of Dumbledore and his insurmountable arrogance, his delusional belief in his own infallible judgment. The Dark Lord’s spy is aptly placed; the Dark Lord’s spy is watching the Potters.
Lying would be foolish, but he’s left with no other choice. The Dark Lord did offer him a favor, after all.
“She’s beneath me,” Severus forces himself to say.
“Not by much, these days,” The Dark Lord says, almost thoughtfully. “She’s talented, shows a willingness to embrace wizarding customs, and is well admired, with a fearful reputation.” He pauses, and Severus knows the next words will be a kill strike. “And she’s shown good sense. She chose an equally talented pure blood from an old, wealthy family for a husband, after all. Not the pauper halfblood who lusted after her.”
And doesn’t that hurt just as much as he meant it to? The Dark Lord approves of Lily’s marriage. Mainly from spite, and cruelty to Snape himself. But on some level, Severus cannot deny Lily’s decision better fits the world the Dark Lord envisions for them. The Dark Lord admires power, more than anything else, and the Potters have always possessed power in spades. He’s offered James a place with the Death Eaters more than once. Even the Dark Lord, Severus thinks, almost hysterically, would have chosen Potter over him.
He wishes he had. They’d be very happy together.
Severus says nothing. He’s not meant to; he’s meant to bleed, and he does, where no one can see it.
“I will consider sparing the mother,” the Dark Lord assents at last. “As a favor to you for the service you have done me.” His voice hardens. “But this will be the last favor you ask of me on behalf of Lily Potter. Any more pining, Severus, and your loyalties will be in question.”
“I understand, my Lord. Thank you, my Lord.” Severus presses himself fiercely into the tiles, loses himself to the supplication, words and praises spilling from his lips as he kowtows, and he cannot help but feel relief. It’s despicable, how low he’s become. He knows what he’s accomplished here has been close to nothing. He’s condemned an infant and a good man to die, and he’s begged only for the life of the wife. But he hopes it is something, because it is all he can do for her.
“Yes, yes,” the Dark Lord says, once he grows bored with the groveling. “That will be all, Severus. You may leave. Send Bellatrix to me when you get a chance.”
Severus has only just climbed onto one knee, but something in the way he says that name makes him freeze. It has the hairs rising on his neck, some animal instinct he didn’t know he possessed whispering danger. “Bellatrix, my Lord?” He confirms, noncommittally.
The Dark Lord smiles. “Yes. I have a task for her. Something to keep her busy and out of trouble. She can prove awfully troublesome if you don’t provide her with the correct … activities. This will suit her, I think.”
Severus’s blood runs cold then, because he knows what pleading for Alice Longbottom’s life just cost him. And he knows just as surely that there is nothing he can do, no mercy he can beg. He could prostrate himself before Bellatrix Lestrange, he could kowtow until his forehead bled, he could offer her his soul and his heart ripped from his own chest, and she would never, ever agree to spare Lily’s life.
The Dark Lord, while cruel, is a man of his word, or at least how he interprets it. Bellatrix is a woman driven by her own demons, and her savagery is tempered by no logical currency.
It didn’t matter, after all, that Lily bore a girl and eliminated herself as a threat. Because he’s put her in danger himself. The Dark Lord looks unfavorably on competition.
He knows now what he must do. Knows where he must go.
He locks everything he thinks and feels away, behind that final wall in his mind. It’s a door, he thinks, that Death can’t even open. It’s the door where he keeps himself.
“Right away, my Lord,” he says, inclining his head.
And later, he flees to the same hill that he does in another world, throws himself before Dumbledore with an offer of anything in return for guaranteed safety—
And just like that, a new fate, an old fate, is sealed.